


Situated

by Fethermage



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon Divergence, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9885020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fethermage/pseuds/Fethermage
Summary: Some snapshots into the lives of two people trying to figure out themselves and each other.Something should be said here, Sam thinks, something poetic, or witty, or even something along the lines of ‘was it good for you too?’ or even the crass ‘I really want to fuck again sometime soon’ but instead they’re slumped together, panting, not looking at each other, sweaty and messy, and Sam doesn’t know how to say anything he should, but Maxson isn’t speaking either, so whatever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by some writing prompts on tumblr. They're not entirely linear, but they do form a whole picture.
> 
> Quick note: Sam's canon diverges after the destruction of the Prydwen. Arthur Maxson survives, and has to figure out how to live his life without the Brotherhood and as an individual instead of an ideal for the first time. These snapshots are set after the Prydwen is destroyed and Maxson's had some time to think about his new life.
> 
> You can see Sam [here](http://samaxsonvevo.tumblr.com/tagged/sam+tag/) if you'd like a visual.

**_i hate trying to put my desire into words when my body knows exactly what to say.  come home. (you can’t start a fire without a spark.)_ **

_–-_

Maxson’s throwing papers from his journal on the fire, and Sam wouldn’t care, except he went to a lot of work to cobble that thing together and really, Maxson’s writing isn’t bad, from what Sam’s been allowed to see, so he’s not sure what requires such vehement ripping and tossing.

“Hey,” he says, and Maxson glances up, scowls, and slaps the journal shut, and Sam doesn’t get a word out of him.

–-

Something should be said here, Sam thinks, something poetic, or witty, or even something along the lines of ‘was it good for you too?’ or even the crass ‘I really want to fuck again sometime soon’ but instead they’re slumped together, panting, not looking at each other, sweaty and messy, and Sam doesn’t know how to say anything he should, but Maxson isn’t speaking either, so whatever.

–-

“So,” Sam says, and Maxson rolls over, props his head up on his fist.

“Yeah?”

And then Sam’s at a loss, because what the hell is he supposed to say when Maxson looks so tired and dishevelled and vulnerable and really, you know what, kisses are better, so he goes for one of those. Maxson obliges.

–-

What Sam wants to say is: I can’t get enough of you.

What Sam does say, because as he opens his mouth he remembers it’s been a year, exactly, since the Prydwen burned and Maxson was thrust out of his old life and into–well–whatever this is is: “You ever think of yourself as Elder anymore?”

Maxson’s head snaps up and his gaze is ice, colder than it’s been towards Sam for months, and fuck, he deserved that.

Sam doesn’t try to explain what he meant, that he meant _I struggle with my past too_ , that he _meant I never know what I’m supposed to be without that structure_ , that he meant _I’m not sure if we can ever make up for what we’ve said and done and supported but that doesn’t mean we don’t go forward, right,_ because he doesn’t even know how to say those things to himself.

–-

With his head on Maxson’s shoulder, Sam yawns and taps the journal page Maxson is looking down at. “Read to me what you’ve written.”

Maxson chuckles. “Roses are red, violets are blue–”

“That’s not what it says.”

Sam feels Maxson kiss the top of his head. “No. But that doesn’t matter.”

Yeah. Sam gets it.

_\--_

**_hey, i’m liking your photos at 2am because i want to make out.  i’m texting you at noon because i want to make out.  i woke up today because i (we don’t need words)_ **

\--

Sam's awake. Maxson knows Sam's awake because he's gone from laying silently to tossing and turning, and Sam's not a very mobile sleeper. He's not saying anything, though, so--

Oh.

Maxson catches Sam's eye across the room. Something about the look makes Maxson turn red, turn away and pretend to be sleeping, and Sam sighs. He must be thinking about the other day--when they finally gave in, broke like a dam, shoved each other against the wall and--but Maxson certainly isn't thinking about it. It's not why he's awake. That's Sam. Not him.

\--

"Hm. Mirelurk?"

Maxson looks up from where he's been patching his coat, eyebrows raised. "Hm?"

"For lunch," Sam says, absently resting a hand on Maxson's coat. "I think we've got some dried mirelurk."

With a quirk of his lips, Maxson  shrugs. "I'm pretty that's all we've got unless we want to head into town." And Sam knows that, so Sam's not really here talking to him. Maxson can read him. The real reason why he's here is because he wants to talk to Maxson, wants to find some way to say _can we do that again--_ and Maxson only knows this because he can read Sam.

Not because he's being trying to find a way to say that too. Not as actively. Really.

\--

The sun is streaming across Sam's sleeping face, and Maxson's struck by how beautiful he is. He reaches for the usual denial--that's not--but it doesn't come. Maxson's too tired to pretend he's not just as wanting--and confused--as Sam is. Possibly more so.

He pulls himself out of bed with a final glance across the room at Sam. Beard, could use a trim--should touch up his fade--see if the trader's coming by today, polish their power armour--

"Mm. Hey."

Maxson turns around, and there's Sam, tired and smiling up at him, and looks like Sam's too tired for pretense, too, because he's motioning for Maxson to come over, and Maxson can read him. He knows exactly what Sam's asking for.

He goes to him.

\--

**_i don’t know what the fuck true love even is but i do want to hang out with you for basically the rest of my life. (let’s hang out - TO THE DEATH)_ **

\--

“I think we both knew we weren’t going to last,” Sam says, and there’s no answer, because of course there isn’t.

“But I never–I never wanted–”

And he sits, because he can’t be standing for this. Can’t be that high above her makeshift grave. It feels wrong.

“I loved you, Nora. I still do. And we weren’t–the world has a fucked up way of–”

Sam rubs his head and sighs. He’s not sure why he’s here, not sure why he feels the need to justify moving on to someone who can’t–probably can’t–hear it, but it just feels wrong not to say anything to her.

She would have laughed at his awful attempt to start this conversation.

“The last thing in the world I wanted was to lose you. I thought–we both knew–a divorce was coming. We couldn’t last. But I still always saw my life with you there. You were my best friend. And–fuck–”

Someone in the Institute had mentioned bringing Nora back. A synth Nora. Sam almost puked at the thought. Nora was gone–and that synth–why force someone to try to live someone else’s life?

She wouldn’t be his best friend. She wouldn’t be his wife, though that break was always going to happen. It’s just that Sam could have never expected it to happen like this.

“You should have survived instead. I–we all should have survived. You’d not run from our son.”

He’s getting off track. This isn’t why he’s here.

“If things hadn’t–if the bombs had never dropped–I know I would have been happy to see you find someone else. I think you would have felt the same. Though, I mean,” and Sam laughs a little, “I don’t think you’d get along with him. Yet. Most people don’t. Yet.”

Reaching out, Sam traces the name he crudely carved into Nora’s headstone. He says no more.

Maxson’s waiting for him when he finally gets up. He’d been napping from the looks of it, which is good. They both need more sleep.

“You good?” Maxson asks, and his voice is gruff and awkward, and Sam can tell he wants to ask but knows he shouldn’t, which is something Sam loves–uh, likes–about him. Without his elder persona to keep up, he knows when not to push for information.

“I’m not sure how to answer that.” And it’s the truth, because it’s not like he had a real conversation with her. Fuck, would that make things easier. “I think I’m ready to think about it, though.”

\--

**_you aren’t really a good person, but god damn, you make bad look awesome. (no one could steer me right, but mama tried.)_ **

\--

Sam smacks his palm down on the table loud enough to startle Deacon into silence. And then he shakes his hand, because ouch.

"I don't care," Sam snaps, "that he's not a good person."

Deacon doesn't respond. He just raises his eyebrows, and Sam isn't in the mood to be questioned. He hates losing his temper, rare as it is, and especially hates losing it at friends.

"You shouldn't either if what you told me about your wife was true. You should get this." Sam looks away, and he feels like shit for bringing that up pretty much immediately, but really--Deacon _should_ get this.

"Sure," Deacon says. "Just be careful."

\--

Sam feels like snapping again. He feels like snapping a lot lately. This time it's at Piper, who is giving him the same concerned lines nearly everyone else seems to be.

"Yeah, well," Sam says, cutting her off, "maybe _I'm_ not a good person."

Piper stares at him. "What--that's bullshit."

Sam slumps forward in his chair, hooking his hands behind his head and gritting his teeth. "Shit, Piper. I've done--I've been a part of--I was in the army pre-war--we've all got our shit to make amends for."

"Your guilt and his are not the same," Piper points out, and Sam snorts.

\--

Sam avoids answering to Desdemona for a month. He can't deal with being told he should have killed Maxson one more time.

\--

"What I think," Sam says, motioning at Maxson from across their fire, "is that good and bad are _bullshit_ labels for most people."

Pulling back from where he's been trying to use the fire to light his cigar, Maxson quirks his lips at Sam. "What brought this on?"

"People," Sam says.

Maxson makes a _go-on_ motion and goes back to getting his cigar lit.

"I'm--you're--people aren't inherently good or bad. People are their actions. You try to do good things--you try _not_ to do bad things--then does it really matter if you've done bad things in the past? If you're really trying--"

"Sounds like something you need to start thinking about yourself," Maxson says, leaning back now that he's finally got the cigar lit.

Sam frowns into the fire. Well, shit.

\--

**_when you touch me, my mind is gone. the only words i know are lost inside your body. (right in there.)_ **

\--

They're lying in bed, face to face, too comfortable to get up and not tired enough to go back to sleep. There's a bruise on Maxson's collarbone. Sam smirks and presses on it with his thumb, and Maxson lightly swats his hand away. "You don't need to look so smug about it."

"Well," Sam says, "I like it."

Maxson rolls his eyes, but he's smiling too. It's a tender one Sam's not that used to, and he's been seeing it a lot from Maxson lately. It makes something in his chest squirm in fear and excitement.

To silence it, Sam pushes Maxson onto his back and slides on top of him, rolling their hips together. Maxson's smile is quickly replaced with something Sam knows how to deal with much better.

\--

They need to talk about this, Sam thinks. _This_ being whatever the hell they're dancing around and not saying, because a lack of communication is what kills relationships, or whatever.

But Maxson's pressed against his back and ghosting a hand up his shirt and Sam thinks that fuck it, they've got more, ah, _pressing_ things to get to right now.

\--

Everything is pleasantly sore in that way only a good fuck can give. Sam's nearly asleep, and he thinks Maxson might already be, and it's a nice warm night and man, if this is his life now, it's pretty damn good.

There's a movement behind him, and then Maxson's arm snakes around his waist as Maxson cuddles up behind him. Sam intertwines their fingers at his waist and smiles, letting himself drift off.

Right as he's on the cusp of sleep, though, he feels Maxson mumbling something from where his face is pressed against Sam's neck.

He pretends he doesn't know what it was.

\--

**_there should be a word for a threat that is also a promise. because that is what i want you to hold me down and do. (i love you)_ **

\--

Of fucking course Sam manages to blurt out _those words_ at the worst possible moment, because when the hell has his timing _ever_ been good.

Maxson's hips stutter, and Sam feels sheer terror, but then he keeps on, acting like he didn't hear it, and all Sam can think is yeah, fuck, that's why he loves Maxson, and hey, stay in the moment, Sam, Maxson's doing something _great_ with his hands that needs attention.

\--

"So," Maxson says, sitting down next to Sam. "Do you want to address it?"

And Sam's laughing, because he's not heard _that_ voice in a while. The 'I was the elder' voice. It's authoritative and formal and stiff and it's reassuring, because it means Maxson's just as nervous as Sam is.

"No. Yes. Depends on what. Hey, can we talk about how gentle you've been lately? You know I'm not actually made of glass. I've pointed this out many times. Not fragile, even though people look at the, you know, and assume--"

"Stop," Maxson says, and his ears are red. "That's not why. I don't think you're fragile."

"So prove it," Sam says, because it's better than talking about it when he's not sure what he wants to say, and Maxson obliges.

\--

It's so dark Sam can barely make out Maxson above him. He can feel him, though. The hand in Sam's hair and the pressure of their hips together and it's slow and Sam doesn't want slow right now, so he hooks his leg around Maxson's hips and whispers a dare and Maxson takes it.

\--

They're sitting outside watching the water when Maxson speaks up.

"I think we both know what this really is."

Sam bites his lip. "Fun?"

"Well," Maxson says, and then he turns away from the water and toward Sam. "Look, you don't have to say it again anytime soon, but I like order. And organization."

"You want to put our relationship in order?"

Maxson rubs his temples, and Sam knows he needs to take this seriously, so he drops the attitude.

"You want to be sure we're on the same page," Sam says, and he inches his hand toward Maxson's. Maxson takes it.

"Yes."

"I mean--yeah. Shit. It's been over a year. I think everyone's calmed down enough that they won't start yelling at me again if I call you my boyfriend."

Sam's really, truly fond of how red Maxson's ears get when he's flustered.

"Besides," Sam says, squeezing Maxson's hand, "I think at this point you're stuck with me for life."

"How terrible," Maxson retorts, then brings their hands up to brush a kiss against Sam's knuckles. "I love you."

It feels like a weight has lifted from Sam's chest at that, and he can tell Maxson feels it too.

"Yeah," Sam says, and he thinks it, and he knows Maxson can see that, and it's what they need.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, a second chapter! 
> 
> These ones don't have ASW titles because they weren't prompts.

"Why don’t you hate me,“ Sam says, and it’s so abrupt that Maxson takes a moment to process.

"What?”

“For what happened. The Prydwen. Everything.”

Sam isn’t meeting Maxson’s eyes, and his leg is bouncing and his hands are twisting and Maxson can tell he’s been thinking about this all day, to the point where he’s likely come up with more reasons for why Maxson should hate him than otherwise.

“It wasn’t your idea,” Maxson says, and now he’s the one trying to avoid eye contact. That mantra got him through the first months, when he and Sam were little more than enemies with a truce. It hadn’t been Sam’s idea. Sam regretted it.

“I still went through with it.”

With a sigh, Maxson rubs his neck. “Yes. You did. You destroyed everything I ever knew, killed my men, brought me down to nothing–”

“And so you should hate me. You probably do already,” Sam says, and he laughs, but it’s a terrified laugh.

“For a while,” Maxson admits. Hell, even when they were becoming friends, even when they started sleeping together, even as he started to feel far more affection for Sam than he ever expected, a part of his heart resented Sam. An ever shrinking part, but it had been there. “But I don’t anymore.”

“All those lives.”

“The Brotherhood is–was–is, in some places still–an army. We all knew eventually we’d die, and no one on the Prydwen expected it to be of old age. It’s why I picked them.”

Callous, maybe. But Maxson had mourned them all the day the Prdywen had set off on her journey. He had to compartmentalize as Elder. It’s taking a while to figure out how to stop doing that now that he’s just a man.

“Your life. I took it all away.”

Squinting at the sun, Maxson sighs. “You did. And it took a long time to admit to myself, but I think–in the end–it was for the better.”

Sam moves to him, wraps his arms around his waist and drops his head to rest on his shoulder. Maxson returns the embrace, because he knows Sam doesn’t believe him right now. Guilt makes for a heavy heart, and Sam is not so carefree as he likes people to believe. It’s alright.

They’re working through everything they did together. It doesn’t matter that Maxson has forgiven Sam for his part in it all. Sam needs time to forgive himself. Hopefully someday he’ll get there.

“I love you,” Maxson says, and Sam squeezes him tighter in response. “Anything else I’ve felt about you is in the past.”

Sam whispers something back, and Maxson doesn’t ask him to clarify. Sam’s getting there. Slowly but surely, he is.

\---

If there’s one thing Sam hates, it’s radstorms.

“Hm,” he says, sitting on the porch of their Kingsport lighthouse home, and Maxson glances up at him from where he’s reading–always reading–and gives him a hm back.

Sam has to turn his head to see Maxson, because he’s got the hood on his ratty old sweater up, and anyway, looking at Maxson is better than looking out at the sickly green glow that has washed over the landscape. “Yeah, hm. I’m not sure this is the best use of our Rad-x.”

“You’re the one who wanted to be out here,” Maxson points out, and Sam turns away from him again.

“I thought it might rain.” Which, yeah, Sam knows that’s not how radstorms seem to work, but he’s still so used to seeing overcast skies and expecting a thunderstorm. That they’re still out here is thanks to two quick doses of Rad-x and Sam’s annoyed pride.

When he was growing up, Sam preferred sunlight. Hell, still does. But in his abuela’s house in Nosara, always too warm, rain during the dry season was an exciting event that cooled off temperatures too hot even for Sam. And the rainy season–all that green plantlife, everywhere, wherever you could see… Rain was never an unwanted guest in Sam’s life. Even in Boston, rain felt like it was washing away the dirt and pollution the city accumulated. Sunlight makes everything shine, but rain makes sure it’s ready to do so.

Radstorms are a cruel reminder that everything is different. Sam hates them. Hates them for making him ache for the rains of pre-war, hates them for even making him compare pre-war to his new life, for making him want to go back when he never can, when–

“Hey,” Maxson says, and he slips down from his chair to sit with Sam on the floor of the porch. “What are you thinking about?”

Sam leans over, rests his head on Maxson’s shoulder, and Maxson wraps his arm around Sam’s waist. This, most of all, is why Sam hates radstorms. They make him resent everything that’s happened to the world, but if it hadn’t, he’d never have–no. They make him think about things that are useless to think about. He cannot miss his old world. This is his life now.

And Sam likes his life. He really does. He just wishes the world didn’t have to end for him to get it.

“Rain,” Sam answers.

\---

“How old were you when you first killed a man?”

“Ten,” Maxson says, staring into the fire. “Raider. Stabbed him in the kidneys. Sarah taught me how.”

Sam lets out a low exhale. He turns on his side from where he was laying, propping his cheek on his good hand.

“I was nineteen.”

Maxson glances to the side, then gives Sam a ‘go on’ gesture.

“I threw up after. Didn’t expect military patriotism to actually feel as heavy as it did. Did you–what did you feel? That young?”

It takes Maxson a long time to answer, and by the light of the fire, Sam can see him fingering the dusty bottle of whiskey they found earlier that day. “Nothing. Pride. Infatuation. Sarah was so cool in my mind, and she was sharing her skills with me. I felt useful.”

And Sam can tell there’s more there, but he just turns on his back, frowning. He doesn’t doubt that Maxson did feel pride, because damn, at ten, he likely wasn’t even processing the full weight of the death on his hands.

“I’m just numb now,” Maxson says, and Sam almost doesn’t catch it. “I think Elder Lyons used to worry about that. Never did anything about it.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, because it’s all he really knows to say. Maybe it’s better that way, he almost says. I feel like that too, he almost says, because he’s had to kill more people in the wasteland than he did in war, and it’s becoming far too routine.

Maxson passes him the whiskey, and Sam takes it.

\---

There's something missing here, Sam thinks. It's not the fact that he just stumbled on a pool in this old house--rich people pre-war had that sort of thing--nor is it that it's full of water, because he's seen a few of them of them with water yet. They're never quite this full, but maybe there's a leak in the roof that rain is getting through. A lot of rain.

Sam leans down to run his fingers through the water, and that's when he realizes: his Geiger counter is totally silent.

This is purified water.

A whole swimming pool's worth of completely purified water.

Sam stands upright, eyes wide. There's no way this has just sat here for two hundred years. This is freshly purified, has to be--someone would have bottled it or staked it out to exploit by now if it had been sitting for even a few weeks unattended.

Unless it's not unattended.

Shit.

Sam and Maxson are here looking for essentials--clothes, things to trade, old books, any viable food--and had assumed the house was abandoned. It isn't exactly the cleanest of houses Sam has seen, after all, and there were no signs of life when they staked the place out. Hell, the door was unlocked.

But with this water--someone lives here. They're not scavenging, they're stealing. They should leave.

Although. Water.

Sam has missed swimming.

"Maxson," he calls, and then calls again. "Hey, Maxson, come here--first floor."

By the time Maxson finds him, Sam's stripped down to his briefs and is sitting at the pool's edge, prosthetic leg off and sitting on top of his clothes. He's lazily swirling his foot through the water, and the look on Maxson's face is so confused that Sam laughs.

"Is that--" Maxson starts, but Sam waves him off.

"It's fine. Purified."

"What, completely?" Setting his stack of books down--books they're going to have to leave, damn--Maxson edges closer to the water, brow furrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Yep. Completely. It's not drinking water--it wouldn't be out and uncovered like this. It's for swimming. I'm going to swim," Sam grins. "Swim with me."

"Don't know how," Maxson says, and his voice is gruff.

"Thought you had purified water down in DC." Looking down at the water, Sam tries to gauge how hard swimming with one leg will be. He'd not had a chance to try after the accident and before the bombs, but he supposes he's about to find out. Hopefully the answer is not hard at all.

Maxson lets out a noise of surprise--a yelp, though Sam will never say that to his face--as Sam slips in. It takes a moment to get his rhythm, but treading water with one leg is going well so far.

"Of course we do. Did," Maxson says, and it takes Sam a second to remember he's talking about the water. "But it's for practical things. This is a waste."

"Yeah," Sam says, and then he slides under, and the look of panic on Maxson's face when he surfaces nearly makes him feel bad. "But it's fun. I grew up swimming, sweetheart, I'm fine."

Sam dives under again, and when he surfaces next he can tell Maxson has come to the same realization he had earlier. "This place is habited."

"Yep." Sam spits a stream of water at Maxson, who glares back at him. "Gotta leave everything we found."

"You shouldn't be in there." Maxson moves closer to the water and kneels down, dipping his hand into the water.

"Nope. My hair is going to give me hell as it dries." Treading water is getting easier as he figures out how to compensate for his new balance. Of course he'd figure it out--Sam's pretty sure he was born for the water.

"And we could get caught," Maxson points out, and Sam's opening his mouth to reply when Maxson goes from gently making waves with his fingers to drenching Sam with a forceful splash.

The shock of it has Sam gasping and laughing. Maxson's great at keeping a straight face, but even now the corners of his lips are turning up. "You--"

Whatever Sam was about to say is cut short as they both hear a door slam.

Fuck. Oh, fuck. Someone's home.

Sam frantically swims for the edge of the pool and hauls himself out. He needs to get his damn leg on, but he's wet and his hands are clumsy with adrenaline and fuck, come on, and where the hell is Maxson--what the hell was that shattering sound--

There Maxson is, shoving Sam's clothes into his hands and picking Sam up, bridal carry, as Sam clings to wet fabric and his prosthetic. There's a window on the other side of the room, and apparently the shattering sound Sam heard was Maxson making them an exit, because it's wide open for them to leave.

That Maxson is able to make it out without dropping Sam, and without Sam dropping his clothes or his legs, is pretty damn impressive.

They're a few minutes of running away before Maxson stops and helps Sam down to a bench where he can put his leg--and then the rest of his clothes--back on. Leaning over, Maxson huffs, heart beating likely as fast as Sam's.

"Well," Sam says. "That was fun."

"Yeah," Maxson says, and then he pulls three objects out of his coat. "I kept the books."

Sam laughs.

\---

"I love you," Sam says, and it's louder than he meant it to be.

But that's okay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back with a third chapter!

Sam doesn’t realize where they are until he sees the church half-buried in irradiated soil, and then he wishes he didn’t know at all.

 _The Glowing Sea._ South of Boston. Ground zero.

It used to be suburbs and factories and a hub of life for those who didn’t want to live in Boston proper. It used to be where his parents lived. Turn left at the church, three houses down on the right. Sam had given the directions often enough.

He wonders if they were here when it happened.

\--

“Knight,” Danse says, and Sam hears him, but he’s ignoring him.

“Sam,” Danse tries again, and Sam hears him, and he sighs, because Danse isn’t a man who uses first names.

Turning around, Sam eyes Danse warily. Not that Danse can see him—they’re both suited up in their power armour to protect against the radiation. Sam’s not wearing his Brotherhood suit in favour of his white winterized one, and Danse isn’t happy with him about that, but Sam doubts Danse has stopped him to reprimand him about that again.

“Yes?”

“I think we’re going the wrong way.”

Oh. Sam looks around, and blinks, and really, everything looks the same. He’d just been trying to walk in the opposite direction of—

“Yeah. You take the lead.”

Danse does, walking past him with purpose, and Sam follows, focusing only on the black figure of Danse’s suit.

\--

He wonders if they were asleep. That’d probably be kindest.

Sam had a teacher once who, during a routine bomb drill, told them that within a certain distance from the bomb it was easier to just run into it. Just make the end come faster. Don’t suffer. Sam had been seventeen. He’d kept it in mind when he signed up for service the next year.

They were close. If they were in the Glowing Sea, they were close. He hopes it was painless.

\--

Sam’s abuela passed away when he was in basic. He didn’t know she was sick. She apparently went painlessly—that’s what they told him. He doesn’t want to know if they lied. He does know she had a good life, and a long life, and he’s so, so glad he doesn’t have to wonder what her fate in the bombs was.

Best she never saw the world end.

\--

The mission is routine. They find Virgil, they get what they need, they make a promise Sam isn’t sure they’ll keep, they leave. If Danse notices Sam is distracted, he doesn’t mention it, and not for the first time Sam appreciates how professional Danse is. He won’t pry into Sam’s business. It’s why Sam’s so fond of the guy.

\--

There’s no tears. Sam feels like he should feel bad about that, but he really feels nothing. He’s numb. It’s shock, he knows it is, and he’s not sure what’s going to happen when it wears off.

Maybe it won’t. A lot of it hasn’t. Sam’s running on autopilot more often than not lately.

\--

Sam’s following a figure in black power armour again, but it’s not Brotherhood armour this time. There hasn’t been any Brotherhood power armour in months. Not since the Prydwen went down, and not since Maxson threw his Brotherhood patch into the fire.

“Maxson,” Sam says, and Maxson stops and turns to him. Sam points at the church, and Maxson nods and motions for Sam to take the lead.

He’s so quiet sometimes. Stoic. Right now Sam appreciates that.

Turn left at the church. Three houses down on the right.

Sam has to guess a little—there are no more homes left—but he’s reasonably sure this is the right spot. There’s nothing he can put up to give them a grave. Flowers would be stolen away by one of the few creatures making their home here, and he’s sure a wood marker would be worn away rather quickly with no one to maintain it.

Sam can’t come back.

If it wasn’t for the radiation, he’d get out of his power armour and kneel. Or something. As is, he stands there, and he waits to cry, but it doesn’t happen.

This was stupid. There is no closure for Sam here. There’s only the reminder that it’s all gone.

\--

The full moon is shining through the makeshift window of their shack at the lighthouse. Originally the plan had been to head to Sanctuary for the night, but Sam can barely be there still when he’s feeling fine. It’d be too much right now.

Maxson is a warm presence at his back, fast asleep—he thinks—and Sam envies him. He’s not been able to sleep at all.

A sob works its way out of his chest, and then he’s hysterically crying. He makes an attempt to stifle the sound by biting his fit, but apparently it didn’t work, because suddenly there’s Maxson’s arm wrapping around his waist.

Sam turns around and buries his face in Maxson chest as he heaves out the tears that have been waiting for over a year to fall. Maxson rubs his back and says nothing and Sam’s glad, because he couldn’t talk right now if he tried.

\--

There’s tea brewing in an old pot on the dingy wood stove when he gets up. Sam’s not seen coffee in the wasteland at all, which makes sense—only place anyone tried to grow it outside of the coffee belt was California, and if those plants survived, they’re not making it to the Commonwealth.

“Morning,” Maxson says, pressing a kiss to Sam’s forehead as he sits down. Sam grabs his shirt as he tries to straighten up, then wraps his arms around Maxson’s shoulders. Maxson shifts and kneels in front of Sam.

Sam rests his forehead on Maxson’s and cups Maxson’s face in his hands and looks at him, really looks, and he reminds himself mourning his parents doesn’t mean he has to mourn his new life. He can embrace his new world without it being an insult to their memory. He’s not leaving them behind as he moves on.

“Tell me about them,” Maxson says, and Sam laughs.

“What, with you just kneeling like that? Your knees will hurt.”

“Are you planning on letting me move?”

“Nope,” Sam says, and he takes a breath and tells Maxson everything important.

\--

He’s not numb anymore. He can lay them to rest.

\----

“It’s my birthday tomorrow,” Sam says, sitting down heavily beside Maxson.  
  
“Is that so.”   
  
Sam grabs Maxson’s whiskey and fumbles himself a drink.  
  
(Maxson pries it back, because it looks like Sam’s been into their stash enough on his own already.)  
  
“June 17th 2051.” After a few attempts to count on his fingers, Sam shrugs. “I’m old.”  
  
Ah. 

  
They’re sitting outside at the lighthouse, watching the sun set over the water. Maxson’s been slowly working through his last cigar and an old book they found, and Sam has apparently been drowning sorrows Maxson knows he can only barely grasp.  
  
“How are you doing?”  
  
Sam shoots him a look and grabs for his cigar. Maxson lets him have it. “Not great.”  
  
That’s more honesty than Maxson’s used to when it comes to how Sam’s feeling. He’d been expecting a snappy comeback or a deflection, and he’s not sure what to do now. They’re still figuring each other out.   
  
Sam’s quiet. After a few minutes he hands the cigar back, and Maxson takes it.   
  
“I shouldn’t be alive,” Sam says.  
  
Hm. “Maybe, but you are.”   
  
With a laugh, Sam slumps lower in his dingy old lawn chair. Maxson feels useless, and he’s not used to feeling useless, so he–  
  
Sam is up, and Sam’s on his lap, and Maxson can smell just how drunk Sam is.   
  
“Distract me,” Sam whispers, sliding a hand to the back of Maxson’s neck.   
  
And fuck, Maxson wants to. If there is anything Maxson knows about this thing between them, it’s that they’re good together like this. He allows himself to put his hands on Sam’s hips, but–  
  
“You’ve been drinking.”  
  
“Hypocrite,” Sam bites, and Maxson narrows his eyes.  
  
“I’m taking you to bed. To sleep.”  
  
Sam protests, but Maxson is strong enough to lift him, so he does. With a defeated groan, Sam rests his forehead against Maxson’s shoulder and mumbles out a reminder to be careful with his leg.  
  
—  
  
There’s warm morning sunlight on his face, but that’s not what’s waking him up. It’s Sam, sliding close to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting his head on Maxson’s chest.  
  
“Good morning,” Sam says, and Maxson rests his arm against Sam’s back.  
  
“Yeah. Happy birthday.”  
  
Sam looks sad, and confused, and resigned, and–not great. Maxson doesn’t know what to say.   
  
“Can we just lay here for a while?”  
  
“Yeah,” Maxson says. That he can do. 

–

They’ve built a fire, and it’s lighting up the darkness well enough that Maxson can see Sam’s face, and Sam is looking better than he has all day.

“Come here,” Maxson says, and Sam leans against him. The warmth seems to comfort Sam, because he wraps an arm around Maxson’s waist and gets as close as he can.

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“I’m twenty-two,” Maxson replies.

Something about that is hysterically funny to Sam. He laughs until he’s in tears, and then he’s just in tears. Maxson wipes them away and Sam grabs his palm to press a kiss to it.

“I shouldn’t be alive.”

That’s likely been eating at Sam all day. Maxson can’t even begin to understand what being alive after two centuries of sleep must feel like, but he knows that Sam’s wrong about that.

“You are. I’m glad you are. You deserve to be.”

It seems to be what Sam needs to hear. He sighs, and it’s like there’s a weight slowly lifting off of him.

“I’ll try to stick around for twenty-nine, then.”

“You’d better. Wasteland can’t get you yet.” 

Sam kisses his cheek.


End file.
